Strumming the Spoke Word
by hunnysucklewilla
Summary: OC character story for a friend


A/N: This is an OC story for Madam Chai on gaiaonline ... The characters belong to her, not I.

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I run my fingers over the smooth wood of its surface; pinging slightly on the strings as my hand runs along the length of my guitar. This instrument says everything I cannot; when I play it feels like my soul is singing all of my emotions. Sure, I sign and I write; I get my point across when I need to, but I've always doubted myself too much to communicate more than what is necessary. Though sometimes, I find that quite strange. I have so much to say, so much feeling, so many emotions, and so many words; yet I can't seem to bring myself to show anyone. I have notebooks upon notebooks filled with my thoughts and songs, all of my words scribbled on pages for my eyes only. I tuck a blonde curl behind my ear and look in the mirror next to my guitar stand, even my reflection makes me want to grab a fresh notebook and pour my feelings down on paper. And that's where my guitar comes in; because there really are no words for those feelings. How do you find the right words to explain how it feels to be born in the body of a boy when that is not who you are? Is it possible to convey those emotions with a simple collection of words? How do you explain the feelings of rejection by your own parents for not being the child they wanted with words? But with music, with my guitar; I can say anything with perfect clarity.

I get dressed for band practice, my image in the mirror becoming a wonderful cacophony of lace, hot pinks, black, and glitter. It makes me smile and I grab my guitar and a notebook as I head out the door. As much as I love band practice, it also makes me a little nervous. My band members are nice, and I've known them for so long; but they are loud and tend to argue a lot. It's not something I know how to handle. Just as I suspected I hear arguing as I approach them. I timidly wave hello, and they stop for a brief second to greet me. I smile awkwardly as they immediately continue fighting. I sit down and open my notebook, scribbling away while I wait for them to resolve their issue. I wish I knew what to say to break up their dispute, but I'd probably make things worse so I don't want to get involved. I'll just write instead, and a few moments pass before I hear silence as they come over to see what I'm doing.

"Shinobu, what are you writing?" I get asked. It's not uncommon, I hear that several times a day.

"Oh. It's nothing." I nervously sign back, smiling shyly and closing the notebook in my hands. They reply with big grins and smiling faces.

"Right. Let's start then!" They know me well enough by now to not pry any further, yet they keep on asking hoping one day I'll show them; and maybe one day I will, but not today. For right now, I'm just relieved that we can begin.

As our music starts, I let it take over. The feeling is almost magical; it's as if the notes breathe new life into me. It's a complex symphony between the music and my soul, like the music almost possesses me and erases all the doubt and fear I have. I can be anything I want when the music plays, and that's just what I do. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a different person entirely when I'm on stage. I find myself smiling and swaying my hips to the beat. I put my whole body into it, my head bobbing and my shoulders rocking; and I'm pretty sure I just winked flirtatiously at a particularly suggestive part of the song. My fingers move on their own, producing the sounds that speak for my heart. It's really very similar to signing, my fingers talking for me. Just like I move my hands to convey words, when I play the guitar I move them to convey feeling; pure, liberated feeling. I play to express myself; to express who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. I wonder if I could make who I am on stage who I want to be every day. Will I ever be as confident on the outside as I feel when I'm creating my music on stage?

Before I know it, practice is over and the bickering commences once more. I shake my head at them and pick back up where I left off in my notebook. I flip back to the pages I had written days ago; just like all of my notebooks this one is a haphazard mixture of diary entries, doodles, and songs. Random thoughts are scribbled on the edges; the pages are worn and slightly crumpled from the constant flipping back and forth. I re-read some of the songs I've composed, the flow of the lyrics match the musical notes I've doodled in the margins; and I wonder what it would be like to hear it on that stage. What would people think of my songs? Would they like them? Would they laugh? Did it matter?

What a strange thought. Did it matter? Did it matter what people thought of my feelings? Did it matter what they thought of my appearance? Did it matter what my parents thought about who I am? Did it matter if I was accepted by these people? Or did it only matter that I liked who I was? I do like who I am. Maybe that is what the music does for me. The music lets me hear myself out loud. The notes I strum slowly on my guitar at home are my internal voice come to life. I like my music because I like myself, not the other way around. Is it possible that all the things that make me doubt myself are the same things that make me unique, special, and the best person I can be? I lift my head from the pages and look at my friends talking, laughing, and play fighting with one another. Maybe the next time they ask, I'll be able to show them; I smile.

Looking at my watch I get up to leave, it's time for me to go help my uncle at his store. I sign my farewell to my band mates and head down the street to my uncle's thrift store. I walk in and greet my uncle with a smile on my face from a good practice and some newly found self-acceptance. He smiles back at me, recognizing what I've found within myself with just one look. I am grateful that I have someone in my life that understands and does their best to guide me to find my own happiness, regardless of what others think; and as I begin to help him I think about all the new music this feeling will help me write when I get home.


End file.
